


Dog Eat Dog

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gangbang, Hazing, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Object Insertion, Sex Club, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus is poised to inherit ownership of one of his house's most profitable clubs. Of course, nothing is free in Slytherin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Eat Dog

Severus began putting the word out at five o'clock in the afternoon on the last Saturday of the school year. They never let the details circulate too long when it came to these little get-togethers. It wasn't good practice.  
  
"Third floor, east wing, lakeside corridor," he murmured to Evan Rosier as they passed in the doorway to the common room, and then, when crossing to his dormitory took him past the study table, he repeated the message to Septimus Johnson.  
  
Septimus in turn elbowed Edwin Wilkes and whispered something in his ear. Edwin then lifted his chin, surreptitiously beckoning to Maurice Singh, who was toasting a scone in the fireplace. Severus, satisfied that everyone who needed to know soon would, proceeded to his bed to take a short nap before the evening's festivities.  
  
At dinner, well-rested and quietly anticipatory, he slid into the empty seat next to Rabastan Lestrange.   
  
"This may well be my last roast dinner at Hogwarts," Rabastan said, examining a bit of beef at the end of his fork. "Thank every little god."  
  
Severus looked at him with the undisguised envy of someone who still had a year looming ahead, and the NEWTs to sit as well. "I've apprised the regulars," he said, attempting to sound appropriately professional.   
  
"Champing at the bit, I'm sure. We could all use a proper unwinding, and the farewell Slug Club party is going to be wall to wall networking." Rabastan's voice lowered as his gaze slid sideways. "Have you double-checked Filch's schedule? You have to do it every single time, you know. He changes things up now and then without any rhyme or reason."  
  
"I checked," Severus assured him, trying not to roll his eyes. "He did his long patrol last night. He'll only be doing the regular rounds tonight. I _have_ been doing half the work for the last three months."  
  
"Half isn't all," Rabastan said, pulling a disgusted face as a dribble of gravy dripped from his upraised Yorkshire pudding. Then he turned a cheerful smile on Severus. "You'll learn that soon enough."  
  
Severus crept out of his bed twenty minutes past lights-out, after both Slughorn and Filch had been into the common room to check for after-hours activity. He exchanged his night shirt for his robes and pulled on his socks. There was a faint noise as Milton Mulciber rolled over in the next bed. His breathing attested to wakefulness, and Severus counted on him to take his departure as a half-hour warning.  
  
He and Rabastan met up in the common room and set off together in cautious silence. Their path was lengthy but efficient, including stops at various bolt holes along the way. The mattresses were first: three large, worn feather beds that they hauled out of a storage cupboard and quickly stacked and levitated to use as a makeshift flying carpet for the rest of the supplies. A pile of sheets were heaped on top, followed by a collection of candles and jars, a tangle of fabric, and finally a few bottles of wine and a piecemeal set of glassware.   
  
"I wanted champagne," Rabastan groused as they reached the third floor of the east wing. "Is that really so much to ask for when I'm about to leave school forever? But old Sluggy's been on his game this week. He hasn't let the key to the liquor cabinet out of his sight."  
  
Severus merely shrugged. He had a decent head for wine but little taste for it. He drew a small bag of warding salts from his pocket and flung a little towards a particular sconce. The flame immediately burned white. It was subtle, obscure enough to be missed by the casual eye, but a clear beacon to anyone wandering the corridor in search of a sign  
  
Rabastan took out his skeleton key and unlocked the door nearest the sconce. He caught Severus's avaricious gaze and wagged his finger. "You get it the day I leave, and not a minute before."  
  
They had opted for the old music room this time. It was one of the better locations: remote and naturally soundproofed. The windows were small and high, and the furniture was light and easily rearranged.   
  
Severus cast a lumos for light and began setting up. He lit the candles and placed them in the four corners, leaving the centre of the room shrouded in soft, flickering shadows. He laid the mattresses down together and then spread sheets over every conceivable surface that he didn't care to have to clean up afterwards. The jars of oil were set around the perimeter of the mattresses, in easy reach.  
  
Rabastan uncorked the wine and began filling glasses. Then he circled the room, looking about in what seemed to be serious aesthetic consideration. Finally, he picked up one of the padded benches and hauled it over. It was set down with a soft scuffing and then covered with a sheet.  
  
"What's that for?" Severus asked.  
  
Rabastan shrugged. "Variety."  
  
Severus looked at the bench doubtfully, but he was not about to argue. Variety was part of the appeal, after all. On the surface, there was no good reason why any boy would part with good money to attend an illicit party. After all, food and drink and intrigue were available through the Slug Club, and Hogwarts had no shortage of empty cupboards in which to arrange a private liaison. The genius of Rabastan's little scheme (which had, he understood, been a dynasty of upperclassmen's scheme before him, and which would soon be Severus's scheme as well) was that not everyone _did_ part with good money to attend.   
  
Admission to these evenings was free. What you paid for was the privilege of not ending up on the bottom of the dog pile.  
  
Therein lay the variety. Fortunes changed dramatically in the dormitories from fortnight to fortnight. Allowances arrived from home and were spent. Overindulgences were paid for on Hogsmeade weekends. Bets were settled and bouts of gambling squared. At one party, there might be two freeloaders to every paying guest, with the lucky few sprawled like emperors on a mound of pillows, being made a feast of. Two weeks later, a minority of temporary paupers might be bent over a row of desks, trying to entertain two payees at once.   
  
It kept things interesting.   
  
Severus was securing the sheets when he heard the whisper of movement in the corridor. The door cracked open uncertainly, and then Evan slipped in with Edwin in tow. Maurice and Septimus were only a few seconds behind, followed shortly by Milton, Rowland Travers, and Leander McLaggen.  
  
There was a clink of coin in the cash box by the door. Then a second. Then a third.   
  
A fourth.  
  
A fifth.  
  
Severus paused in his work.  
  
A sixth.  
  
A seventh.  
  
Severus frowned, shoulders stiffening in alarm. _Bugger_ , he thought distinctly and then stepped aside to where Rabastan was examining the wine. "I need a loan," he whispered.  
  
Rabastan finished his perusal of a label and raised an eyebrow. "Why would I loan you money?"  
  
"Because I didn't bring any." Severus attended with empty pockets more often than not, but he was usually in good company. It was rare that everyone paid up, but when they did, a convivial evening of handjobs and blowjobs usually followed.   
  
"So you didn't bring any," Rabastan said with an easy shrug. "You know the rules."  
  
"But everyone else is paying!" Severus hissed. He chanced a glance over his shoulder at the assembly and shook his head. "What are the bloody odds?"  
  
Rabastan beamed. "Fairly good, actually. When you take into consideration that I lent out the money this morning."   
  
Severus stared at him in stark incomprehension for a fraction of a second. He couldn't mean—of course he did. The blood drained from his face momentarily before roaring back all at once.  
  
Rabastan patted him on the shoulder. "Buck up, Snape. It's tradition."  
  
"No," Severus said. He shook his head firmly. " _Absolutely not._ "  
  
"Fine..." Rabastan said with such lightness that Severus knew exactly what was coming next. "...if you're not interested in taking over the club."  
  
Severus's shoulders slumped and his jaw tightened. His gaze flicked uncertainly towards the cashbox. Then it crept towards his housemates. Some avoided his eyes. Some smirked. At least one looked bashful. Severus looked at the cashbox again, torn. He had done the sums—multiple times.  
  
"If you want the privilege," Rabastan said patiently, "you have to earn it."  
  
One night. One hour. A half-hour, really, given how long these things tended to last when you subtracted the drinking and cigarettes. Twenty minutes, tops, when everyone was wound up with end-of-term excitement. Bugger all.   
  
Literally.  
  
Rabastan obviously read his decision on his face. He patted Severus on the back and breezed off with as many wine glasses as he could carry.  
  
"If everyone could keep their pants on for one minute," Rabastan announced to general sniggers as he distributed the drinks, "I would like to say a few words."  
  
Severus sourly took a glass. His scowl deepened as Rabastan pulled him forward and slung a chummy arm around his shoulders.  
  
"I've had the great pleasure of being the host of these little soirees for the past year. After tonight, I'll be passing the mantle on to Severus Snape." Rabastan paused for a soft round of applause. "Now, some of you may remember the night I took over from Cicero Dobbins..."  
  
Here, the seventh years grinned. Septimus Johnson let out a soft whoop.   
  
"All I can say is, tonight? Not a bloody chance." Rabastan showily displayed his coins and tossed them into the cash box. “But I can assure you we're all going to have an evening to remember. To hedonism, gentlemen!”  
  
They drank to that. Severus knocked back his wine in one go with the suspicion he was going to need it. The others took their time, interspersing sips with leisurely undressing in the shadows. Severus set his glass down hard and stripped off grimly.  
  
Rabastan, the traitorous bastard, took one sash off the pile and knotted it around Severus's bare arm. Then he tied it into a bow, looking particularly pleased with himself. Severus glared at him in a manner he hoped properly communicated that he would not hesitate to murder him at a future point in time should the opportunity present itself.   
  
The expression seemed to have little effect. Rabastan merely looked smug as he planted a hand between Severus's shoulder blades and steered him over to the bench. "Any last words?"  
  
Severus's face went violently red, and he was grateful for the near-darkness at the centre of the room.   
  
"I would like it to be known," he said, "that I despise each and every one of you."  
  
A mingling of chuckles and jeers broke out.  
  
"Bad form, Snape!" Evan called out.   
  
"Make yourself comfortable," Rabastan said gleefully, bending Severus over the bench.   
  
Severus braced himself on his elbows, his feet planted. His hair fell in his eyes, and he belatedly wished he'd brought something to tie it back with.  
  
Rabastan stepped astride the bench, leisurely stroking his prick. "Let's start with an old favourite, shall we?"  
  
"Bastard," Severus muttered.  
  
"What was that?" Rabastan asked.  
  
Severus sighed and then opened his mouth obligingly. The head of Rabastan's prick rubbed against his lips before pushing in against his cheek. Rabastan's fingers curled around Severus's jaw, holding him still as he thrust shallowly into his mouth with a satisfied sigh.  
  
"Who gets his arse first?" Edwin asked, somewhere in the darkness behind him.  
  
"Has someone got a coin? We'll flip for it." That sounded like Rowland.  
  
Then the cashbox clattered loudly as a heavy coin disturbed the pile.   
  
"A galleon says I get him first." It was Septimus.   
  
He tried to look over his shoulder as he heard the others moving behind him, but Rabastan held him fast. Severus let his teeth scrape softly, and Rabastan shuddered.  
  
"Aw," Maurice cooed. "Septimus _likes_ Severus."  
  
A snort. "What I _don't_ like is you tossers' sloppy seconds."  
  
"I do," Edwin said, the leer heavy in his voice. "Mess him up good."  
  
Fingers pried his arse cheeks apart, and a trickle of thick oil dripped over his hole. It dribbled down over his balls, making his prick stir despite his apprehension. Behind the wet sound of his own mouth around Rabastan's prick, he could hear the slick slide of Septimus oiling himself up.   
  
The first blunt push made him groan in protest.   
  
Rabastan patted his cheek. "It's really best not to fight it, or you’ll be here all night."  
  
Another push forced him open, and he made a wretched sound around Rabastan's prick. He clutched the edges of the bench, his eyes open wide as he was stretched. Septimus eased in with a soft moan, and then his hips were moving, rocking Severus forward.  
  
He could hear the rustle and shuffle of the others crowding in. Their gazes crawled all over him, and his skin tightened, his prick rising and his arms and legs breaking out in gooseflesh.   
  
"Bloody hell," someone whispered.   
  
At least two people were wanking; he could hear the skin-on-skin slap of it. Heat sank heavily to his loins as hands moved over him, more than could be accounted for by Rabastan holding his head still and Septimus gripping his hips. Fingertips trailed down his back. Someone squeezed his side. Someone grasped his wrist and pulled, commandeering his hand.   
  
Severus teetered, braced uncomfortably on one elbow as his hand was forcibly rubbed across a smooth chest, then down to a hard prick. His fingers wrapped around it, and its owner's hand squeezed around his own, guiding him in a smattering of sloppy strokes.  
  
"Fuck, that's hot," someone murmured. The sounds of wanking grew louder.   
  
Severus winced as his prick bobbed up against the bench. He wiggled, unable to move more than inch in any direction. His balance was precarious, and the only equilibrium to be found was in letting Septimus thrust him forward and Rabastan shove him back. He managed to raise himself up on Septimus's next hard push and got his prick under him, rubbing between his belly and the bench.   
  
"Hurry up, Johnson," Edwin complained.   
  
“Fuck off,” Septimus grunted, but he doubled his efforts nonetheless. His hips slammed into Severus's, fucking him so hard the bench creaked.  
  
“Good lord,” Rabastan gasped as Severus let out a long whine around his prick. His fingers tangled in Severus’s hair, winding tight.   
  
Severus moaned in relief when he felt the first pulse of Rabastan's prick. The salty rush of spunk flooded his mouth, and Rabastan ground hard against him, yanking at Severus's hair before he eased and withdrew.  
  
“Who’s next?” Rabastan asked, stepping back leisurely and flopping down to recline at the edge of the mattress. He grabbed a bottle of wine and took a long swig.  
  
Severus’s mouth was empty for all of two seconds before someone pushed in roughly. He choked, his throat protesting, and he heard a snort of laughter.  
  
There was something buzzing on the air, a dangerous energy growing with every noisy thrust and sputtering cough as Severus struggled to stay afloat. He had no idea whose prick he was sucking. There were hands all over him and the sticky trail of at least two pricks rubbing against him.  
  
Septimus’s low groans grew louder, and the bench skidded as he wound up to a dozen violent thrusts that made Severus let out a muffled shout.  
  
“Fuck,” someone sighed, “don’t break him for the rest of us.”  
  
“Bugger that,” he heard Leander say. “Hey, Rowland—make him choke.”  
  
A hand gripped the back of Severus’s head, and the prick in his mouth pushed halfway down his throat. Severus could hardly breathe, his nose pressed against Rowland’s stomach and his throat desperately swallowing. Septimus had stilled behind him, and he felt like half his guts were rearranged when the prick pulled out of his arse.  
  
“Right down his gullet, Rowland,” Maurice moaned, his voice coming from directly above the sound of vigorous wanking.  
  
“Come on his _face_ ,” Edwin said.  
  
There was a full outbreak of laughter this time. Rowland, the pillock, did pull out of Severus’s mouth, leaving him panting. He started wanking furiously, his breath coming out in a racing _huh-huh-huh_. The first spurt hit Severus’s chin. The second and third dripped down his lips, and his tongue swiped out reflexively to clean up the mess.   
  
Rowland rubbed the wet head of his prick against Severus's mouth, his voice tight. “Go on...give it a polish.”  
  
Severus dug his fingers into the bench. His prick was straining desperately, and he decided that there was no feasible way of getting through this with his dignity intact. Ergo, the only sensible thing to do was ride it out. His lips parted, and he mouthed maliciously at Rowland’s prick, licking up the lingering drops of spunk until Rowland was nearly shaking with overstimulation.  
  
Someone pushed into his arse with no preamble, and Severus cried out.  
  
“Oh, I like that,” he heard Edwin say. He pulled out and thrust in again, and no clenching jaw or grinding teeth was enough to keep Severus from making that sound again.  
  
“An opportunity to shut him up is being wasted,” Rabastan pointed out. The wine bottle glinted in the shadows as he raised it for another pull.   
  
Two pricks presented themselves in an instant. Maurice, he thought distantly, and that had to be Evan. He had no preference; he opened his mouth and let them decide among themselves. One pushed itself in while the other rubbed against his cheek. He shut his eyes, holding on and letting himself be jarred between the prick in his arse and the one sliding over his tongue.  
  
“Think he can he fit two in his mouth?”  
  
 _No_ , he intended to say, and very firmly at that, but all that came out was a garbled groan.   
  
A finger hooked at the corner of his mouth, pulling. He was surrounded, flesh pressing close and his jaw stretching wide as Maurice crammed in alongside Evan. He could feel them rubbing together, his tongue caught in the middle, their fingers bumping his lips as they stroked themselves.   
  
“Fuck...he can.”  
  
“What a slag.”  
  
“Look at him drooling for it…”  
  
They didn’t last long, mercifully. He could dimly see their thighs trembling as they came within seconds of each other—in his mouth, upon it, some of it dripping down his neck as all three were rattled by Edwin's rattling thrusts. A hoarse cry came from behind him, and Edwin's fingers clenched around Severus's hips as he shot.  
  
Severus sucked in a hard breath when he could, seeing stars. His mouth hung open, his jaw sore and his lips smeared with spit and spunk.   
  
“My turn,” Leander said. “Flip him over, will you?”  
  
At least six hands closed around him, forcing him over onto his back. The room seemed to spin. He was yanked forward by the thighs until his arse was at the edge of the bench. His prick dripped pre-come onto his stomach. Someone pinched his nipples, pulling at them until he yelped. Someone batted at his prick. Someone else tugged at his balls. Fingers shoved into his arse and twisted.  
  
“Jesus Christ, he's as wet as a girl,” Leander said. “Two loads of spunk up there.”  
  
“How would you know what a girl feels like?” Maurice scoffed, breathless, from somewhere on the floor.  
  
“I know what your sister feels like,” Leander shot back, then moaned as he pushed in with obscene ease. “Yeah...just like a nice wet cunny.”  
  
Severus's hand fumbled down, and he nearly whimpered in relief when he got a grip on his prick. Let the bastards do what they wanted, so long as he could get off. All he had to do was lie back and let it happen. Let the prick in his arse keep driving into him. Let someone straddle him and push their prick into his mouth. Hands on him in the darkness. The squabbles of them trading off. The spatter of someone's spunk across his chest. Bitter salt in his mouth, again and again and again.   
  
At one point, someone pressed cool glass to his lips. He opened his mouth, parched, and let the wine flow in. He swallowed greedily, making a faint sound of protest as the cold splash of it moved down to his chest, the rest poured out onto his prick. Even that wasn’t enough to make him soften.   
  
“Put it in him, put it in him,” someone whispered excitedly—Milton, the jackass—and before he could properly parse the words, the hot prick left his arse and there was the cold push of the long glass neck inside him.  
  
God help him, it felt good. His hand flew, desperate now, pulling at his prick until he reached the crest. He arched as the bottle thrust hard in and out, and he cried out hoarsely as he shot. In his breathless fancy, he imagined he must have hit the ceiling as the arc of spunk disappeared in the darkness.   
  
"Bloody hell," he breathed, dizzy and possibly floating two inches above the bench.   
  
Someone pulled his legs back, holding them as they trembled.  
  
"Spread him wider."  
  
"Fuck, look at that..."  
  
He was too well-spent to flinch when the bottle was thrown aside and broke on the floor. Someone pushed into him again, and through half-shut eyes, he caught a glimpse of Rabastan above him, thrusting roughly.   
  
"Go on," Rabastan murmured, his grin flashing in the darkness. "Give the slag what he wants."   
  
Severus could hear the hurried smack of hands on pricks—could feel the air stir, and then the first spurt of many as it dripped onto his cheek.  
  
"Fuck," Rabastan moaned, his hips snapping as Severus was thoroughly besmirched.  
  
His mouth. His chest. His stomach. Moans from all around him, and then a loud trio of grating gasps as Rabastan wound up hard and spent in his arse.   
  
Heavy breathing all around him. Slowing. Slowly.   
  
"Fuck. I'm done in," Rabastan said.   
  
There was an audible wet sound as he pulled out. Severus stared up blindly and listened as the others eased back and sat down. Loud exhalations and faint, disbelieving curses. The pop of another wine cork. The brief flare of a cigarette off one of the candles.   
  
Severus's legs were locked. It almost pained him to put them down, and something in his hip audibly twinged. He swayed as he tried to stand up. He had to steady himself on the bench for a moment, and then he straightened. He felt a trickle of spunk slide down his thigh.  
  
Seven steps took him to the wall. When he was quite certain that all eyes in the room were upon him once more, he quite deliberately picked up Rabastan's robes and used them to wipe off his face. He found his own robes and put them on. He pulled on his socks. Then he looked at the sprawled assembly with what he hoped was barely restrained disgust and not worry that he was never going to be able to sit again.   
  
"Beginning in September," he announced, his voice rubbed worn but firm, "prices will be going up 25%."  
  
Groans erupted, and someone threw a shoe in his general direction.  
  
“Like it,” he said, “or lump it.”   
  
Then he mustered what strength he had left and shut the door very firmly behind him as he staggered out. Let Rabastan enjoy one last post-party bout of cleaning. He was finding a hot bath.


End file.
